You know what I miss? I miss the days when I was blissfully unaware of the endocrine system. When I knew nothing of the secret, clandestine workings of the thyroid gland and its wicked hormones. Those were good days, really good days, but they’re gone forever.
You see, the thyroid is the master gland of metabolism. It’s a butterfly shaped doohickey and typically weighs 10 to 30 grams. A dainty, petite organism, right? Wrong. It’s two-inches of mayhem. A wee, little juggernaut.
Because of this one rogue gland I had the metabolism of a hummingbird and a heart rate in the vicinity of 200 beats per minute. That was just the tip of the iceberg, though. My hands shook, too, and my hair was falling out; I was short-tempered and anxious, and all I ever wanted to do was sit down. I was falling apart, man.
I thought it was menopause. My doctor thought it was a stroke waiting to happen.
We were both wrong. It was my thyroid. And it took a solid year of doctor appointments, scans, blood tests, and a bizarre afternoon in nuclear medicine to bring the hyperactive little troublemaker to its knees. In other words, it did not go quietly into that good night.
No, sir. It thumbed its nose — nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah — at the vast arsenal medical science threw at it. Pharmaceuticals? Ha. Radioactive iodine? Double ha. More pharmaceuticals? In your fa — cough, wheeze, splutter — ce. Months of targeted assault had finally taken their toll.
The poor thing was clogged and weakened, sure, but still working, if you can believe that. Although at a surprisingly normal level. That’s the part that amazes me. Not the fact that it refused to go down, but that it decided to start functioning (more or less) normally again. Why? And what sent it over the edge in the first place? I’ll probably never know.
Just like I’ll never know what caused this stoopid, frustrating, protracted writing slump. Wait. Do you thi … nah. Could it?
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